Welcome, my son,To where the work is never doneAnd the hungry...

Welcome, my son,

To where the work is never done

And the hungry are seldom ever fed.

The department of false hope

Is a proving ground for dopes.

And they’ll grind your tiny bones to make their bread.

So hold your head up high, forgotten man.

Tomorrow won’t be made for you.

And everybody’s gotta try to lend a helping hand.

For god and man, there’s nothing more to do.

It crackled on the radio

Through bright plumes of the sun.

The announcer said the age of faith was dead.

Though the adolescent nation

Was just looking for salvation,

The beast of reason reared its ugly head.

So hold your head up high, forgotten man.

Tomorrow’s not for me and you.

And everybody’s gotta try to lend a helping hand.

For god and man, there’s nothing more to do.

From your cradle of destruction,

With the poorest of instruction

And the merest sliver of a tune,

Oh, you managed somehow to muddle through.

So hold your head up high, forgotten man.

Tomorrow’s not for me and you.

And everybody’s gotta try to lend a helping hand.

For god and man, there’s nothing more to do.

There is nothing more…